


But At What Cost?

by afteriwake



Series: nongentorum [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bitter Mycroft, Bitterness, Failed Relationship(s), Lestrade-centric, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, POV Lestrade, Past Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Past Relationship(s), Poor Lestrade, Sad Ending, Sad Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 01:49:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6884059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade has a late night call with his ex-lover and then reflects on the debacle that was their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But At What Cost?

**Author's Note:**

> I saved [this](http://s32.postimg.org/e7r16o85x/Mystrade_Ended_Badly_Prompt.jpg) from a Facebook group I was on ages ago, because I thought it might inspire something, and then when I started this series I thought "Why not put it there?" and this fic came out. If anyone knows who made the original post I would love to know so I can properly credit them!

“It’s midnight, what do you want?” 

Lestrade sighed. He should have known his phone call wouldn’t be well received. The less the two of them had to talk, the better. But it was important. Sherlock had gotten himself into a scrape; the missive from his brother to get it sorted had been delivered to him and he, of course, had done his duty. Normally he would have told Mycroft’s PA that all was well now but the woman was, for some reason, not answering her mobile. Every once in a while, she tried to get them to sort their own issues out, like there was still hope for them.

That was a ship long since sailed, unfortunately.

“Sherlock is safe. I thought you might want to know.”

“Good. See to it he is delivered to Baker Street and tell him I shall speak to him in the morning.” There was a pause, as though there might be a thank you uttered afterward, but then the connection went dead against his ear.

Lestrade hung up his mobile and then slumped in his seat, running a hand across his face. Oh, every time he had to deal with His Lordship, as the others termed Mycroft Holmes, that was a special kind of pain for him. A right stab in the heart for him. Most others were either too intimidated or too annoyed. For him, it was just a reminder of what might have been if it all hadn’t gone arse backward up in flames.

He had known about his wife’s affairs long before Sherlock brought it up at the Christmas party. He’d known he was a cuckolded husband for a long time. She’d all but blatantly paraded the men in front of them, the endless string of them. She was a spiteful bitch of a woman because he hadn't been making £900K a year at some hoity-toity office job. She'd slummed it, but he knew she'd been just biding her time until she could set her sights higher. But he didn’t care. He hadn’t really loved her for years.

Not since she’d ruined his chance at happiness.

Not since she’d made damn sure he couldn’t leave his marriage when Mycroft had asked him to.

The affairs on her end had started not long after their fifth anniversary, when it became apparent he was in his career as a copper for the long haul. Why she had married him, he had no clue. Well, he did. Their families had put pressure on them to. On him to not come off as a ponce, to “man up.” He liked both men and women, and it was more socially acceptable to be with a woman. And he had thought they could be good together. For her, he was a good choice, a safe choice: respectable man with a promising future.

But they’d never really loved each other.

She’d done her duty by him, giving him a child, but their lives in the bedroom was lackluster and eventually she turned to other men. He didn’t, though. Didn’t turn to other women, didn’t turn to men, much as he wished to. He took his vows seriously. And then he met Mycroft and he seriously reconsidered things. It didn’t matter to him that Mycroft was a bloke. There was a connection there, one he didn’t share with his wife. And he didn’t care about the scandal it would cause when he wanted to leave. But oh, she did. And she was going to raise holy hell. Take Beth and make sure he never saw her again. Destroy his career. Ruin his life. Ruin his good name. Ruin Mycroft’s, too. Make sure that the two of them were met with ridicule and scorn and imprisoned for the lifestyle they would choose, if at all possible.

And he couldn’t let that harpy do that to the people he cared for.

Mycroft didn’t understand. They’d had a row to end all rows and after that, it was never the same. Mycroft was cold towards him, as cold as a glacier. He truly was the Ice Man. Any trace of the man who had loved him once was gone. And that tore at him. But he had saved Mycroft public humiliation. And when his daughter was old enough to understand, he got out of the hellish situation, with his daughter taking his side, so he managed to salvage that relationship. The hellish shrew was out of his life for good, his daughter still cared, and she understood. He was lucky for that, he supposed.

But it had cost him the man he loved. Sometimes he had wondered if that was a price worth paying.

At the very least, though, he could keep Sherlock safe. He hadn’t been able to from Moriarty, and for that he was sorry, but now that he was back, he could. It was the least he could do. He could do whatever it took to make sure that no harm came to Sherlock, so that he could spare Mycroft some pain. And if it meant having to have conversations like these, ones where at the end of it he knew he’d go home to his empty flat and have three fingers of whiskey and sit in his chair and contemplate whether it was all worth it, whether it was worth it all to be alone, so be it.


End file.
